


Sometimes the Darkness is your Friend

by gwynhefar



Series: The Quiet of the Fall [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Character Death Fix, Established Relationship, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwynhefar/pseuds/gwynhefar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up hadn’t been part of the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes the Darkness is your Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Avengers fic (and the first fic I've actually written in awhile) and there are a lot of great fix-its out there but it's my opinion that you can never have too many. The title comes from Bruce Cockburn's amazing song "Pacing the Cage" which you can listen to here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AR7DYF7WS0o.

When Phil opens his eyes in SHIELD medical he wishes he hadn't.  Waking up hadn’t been part of the plan.  And there had been a plan - Agent Coulson always has a plan.  The plan was in two parts: make a last desperate attempt to stop Loki -  because Fury had told him to secure the cage and everyone else on the helicarrier had their hands full trying to stay alive and stay in the air - and die a heroic death in the line of duty the way Phil has always known he would.  Technically Fury hadn’t ordered the last part, but Phil would do whatever it took to stop Loki because forget the rest of the world, Loki had taken  _Clint_ and Agent Coulson may need to save the world but all Phil really wants is to make the bastard pay - and to be able to close his eyes without seeing those flat, expressionless eyes in the face of the thing that had once been his lover.  
  
But those eyes are still haunting him because apparently he is, against all odds, still alive which means that the world hasn’t ended so the Avengers have probably gotten their act together and saved the day but Clint isn’t here, and Phil doesn’t want to have to think about what he knows that means.  
  
Phil had long since made his peace with the idea that he might lose Clint sooner rather than later -- most likely on an op and probably while he  _watched_ and he’d prepared for that but nothing had prepared him to lose Clint while the archer’s body was still walking around, taunting him with those cold, dead eyes.  
  
There’s an ache in his chest - a physical pain to match the ache of loss and Phil takes a moment to appreciate the irony of surviving a spear to the heart when he’d been hoping to die of a broken one.  He’s tired.  Because Agent Coulson may be perfect, but Phil’s just a man and he’s tired of pretending not to be worried every time one of his people goes out in the field and absolutely  _ terrified _ whenever it’s Clint.  Not that it matters any more.  But his heart’s still beating and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor is so loud in his ears it almost drowns out the soft thump from above.  Almost.  
  
The beeping gets faster and louder and Phil instinctively yanks the wires off while taking deep breaths that don’t hurt as much as he thinks they should because Clint is Loki’s, Clint is  _dead,_ but it wouldn’t be the first time his lover has popped in through the ceiling.  
  
One of the ceiling tiles disappears and when that familiar form drops silently to the floor in front of him Phil’s first thought is that the thing that used to be Clint has come to finish what Loki started, and he can’t help a flood of relief.  And if there’s a tiny corner of his mind that is trying to hope, well, Phil’s good at suppressing, because those blue eyes are fixed on him and they’re still dead inside.  
  
But that tiny corner refuses to be suppressed because as Phil watches a spark flares to life in Clint’s eyes and the blank expression slowly turns to one of cautious wonder. Phil’s seen that same expression on Clint’s face once before - right after the first time he’d kissed his infuriating archer after one too many close calls in the field - and now he can’t breathe for the hope blossoming in his chest and oh God if this isn’t real . . . There are so many questions running through his head, so many answers he needs before he can believe but all that comes out is a strangled whisper, _“Clint.”_

  
Clint’s at his side and he didn’t even see the archer move, but that’s hardly unusual when it comes to Clint and Phil's comforted by the familiar startlement he’s never allowed himself to show.  Clint still hasn’t said anything but the look on his face has turned from wonder to something like happiness and Phil watches him take a deep breath - ghosts don’t breathe, Phil thinks - and close his eyes in pain or relief, Phil isn't sure which.  Clint just sort of stands there, eyes still closed like he’s afraid if he opens them Phil will be gone and Phil hasn’t blinked since Clint dropped from the ceiling - he doesn’t  _dare_.  
  
Phil thinks he's probably dreaming, but no one’s ever called Phil Coulson a coward and he needs to  _ know. _  So he pushes himself upright in the bed, ignoring the dull throb in his chest - sore, but mostly healed - and reaches one hand out to where Clint is gripping the sheets in a white-knuckled fist and (please don’t let this be a dream) lightly touches the back of Clint’s hand.  
  
Clint’s hand is solid and warm beneath his fingers and Clint’s eyes fly open and they’re bright with joy and love and unshed tears and Phil believes, finally, that this is real, this is Clint,  _his_ Clint, and for the first time since he woke he’s  _glad_ , so very glad to be alive.  Clint turns his hand over and squeezes Phil’s so hard it hurts but Phil doesn’t care.  
  
“They told me you were dead.”  Clint’s voice is low and rough and breaks on the last word but he keeps going, words pouring out like he’s been holding them in for weeks and Phil thinks probably he has.   
  
“I didn’t believe Fury but then Tasha said it was true and I couldn’t . . . they wouldn’t let me see a body and Fury  _lies_ and I’ve been looking but I didn’t think . . .”  Clint swallows, hard.  “I didn’t think I’d really find you,” he finishes, voice soft with remembered helplessness and Phil’s heart breaks, but in the good way - in the way that means it’s starting to put itself back together again.  
  
“Loki?” Phil asks, because he’s Phil but he’s also Agent Coulson and there are still questions he needs answers to.  
  
“Gone,” Clint says shortly.  “Thor took him and the tesseract both back to Asgard and the Council’s pissed but I think Fury’s relieved he doesn’t have to deal with it any more.”  
  
“How long?” and there are so many ways that Phil can finish that question - ‘how long since the world didn’t end?’ and ‘how long have I been here?’ and ‘how long did they make you believe I was dead?’ but Clint hears them all, and when he answers “thirty-eight days” without hesitation because he’s been  _counting_ Phil wants to hit something, preferably Fury because Clint’s right, Fury lies, and even when Agent Coulson can understand the reasons the look on Clint’s face is something Phil will never forgive Fury for.  “Loki’s army made a mess of parts of New York but there weren’t as many casualties as we were afraid of.”  
  
“The Avengers?” Phil asks, although he knows that if any of them had died Clint would have already told him.  
  
“Everyone’s fine.  You were right about Stark, by the way.  The Council tried to nuke the city but Stark flew the bomb  through  the portal and almost didn’t make it back.  Thought we’d lost him there for a minute but he’s a tough bastard and don’t you dare tell him I said that.  Natasha’s off running something over in Europe with Sitwell and Thor hasn’t come back from Asgard yet, but Steve and Bruce didn’t really have anywhere to go and I didn’t want,  _couldn’t_ stay in the apartment” - he doesn’t say ‘without you,’ but Phil hears it anyway - “so we’re all staying in Stark tower.  It’s kinda nice,” he says with that little half-smile he gets when he’s insecure because nothing in Clint’s past has really prepared him for the idea that anyone could like him for more than his ability to kill things with great precision.  
  
Phil can only hope that will change because this - the Avengers staying together even after the crisis is over - this is more than he’d even hoped for and there’s a part of him that’s absurdly pleased that the idea he’d given Fury - as good a reason as any for getting himself killed - actually worked.  And really there’s just one more question he has to ask.  
  
“Clint,” he says, not because he needs Clint’s attention - Clint’s been watching him like he might disappear any moment - but Phil says his name anyway just because he  _can_.  Clint smiles, and it’s a real smile, the kind he only really shows to Phil and sometimes Natasha, and Phil doesn’t want to be the one to make that smile go away but there just one more thing he has to know.  
  
“You’re . . . you.”  It’s a statement, not a question, because Phil’s sure now, he  _believes,_ but the ‘how?’ is implied.  As he predicted, Clint’s smile vanishes and he looks away, staring down at their hands still clasped together, something like shame overpowering his need to keep Phil in his sight at all times.  
  
“Yeah,” he says softly and there’s so much meaning in that one word that Phil doesn’t even know how to begin separating it out.  “Tasha hit me upside the head,” Clint’s lips twist in a self-deprecating smile but it’s gone as quickly as it came.  “Stark called it ‘cognitive reboot,’ and God, Phil I’m so  _sorry_.”  Clint’s voice breaks on something that would be a sob from anyone else and Phil’s heard enough.  He tightens his grip on Clint’s hand and pulls  hard catching the archer off-balance so that he falls, landing half on the bed and half on Phil.   Phil can feel the stitches in his chest strain and it hurts but he ignores it because his hands are on Clint’s head pulling him close until they’re face to face, breathing,  _both of them_ breathing the same air, and Phil has one hand tangled in Clint’s hair and the other running light fingers down his cheek and finally,  _finally_ the image of those cold, dead eyes is gone, replaced by the ones he’s staring into now, haunted by guilt and regret but warm and alive and Phil can work with that.  
  
“Not your fault,” he whispers fiercely into Clint’s lips, pressing his mouth to Cilnt’s in a soft kiss, light and reverent like a benediction.  “Not your fault,” he says again, “thought I’d lost you but you’re here and it’s not your fault, none of it, it’s Loki’s fault and God I thought you were  _gone_ but you’re here.  You’re here.”  
  
Clint doesn’t say anything but he buries his face in the crook of Phil’s neck and Phil tightens his grip on those strong shoulders and there are tears running down his cheek and his shoulder is damp and that’s ok, because he’s not Agent Coulson now and Clint’s not Agent Barton, they’re just Phil and Clint, and there’s no one here to tell them different.  
  
They lie like that for a few minutes but it’s awkward and uncomfortable and Phil’s left shoulder is reminding him that he was stabbed there barely more than a month ago.  He shifts slightly, trying to ease the pressure and can’t quite hold back a wince.  Clint notices - Clint notices everything - and makes to roll off Phil and the bed both but he grabs a fistful of Clint’s shirt with his right hand, stopping him.    
  
“Stay,” he says, staring into those warm, alive,  _wonderful_ eyes.  
  
“Fury,” Clint reminds him but Agent Coulson has given Fury enough already and Phil needs Clint.  
  
“Fuck Fury,” he says and Clint’s eyes widen in shock - Phil almost never resorts to such language and whatever his personal opinions he’s never criticised the Director in front of an agent but Fury let Clint believe he was dead for more than a  _month,_ and who knows when Clint would have been told the truth if he hadn’t spent weeks skulking in the ceiling, desperately searching every empty room for answers and Fury  _owes_ them.  
  
“Fury owes us,” he repeats aloud and Clint nods and settles next to Phil.  Eventually Phil and Fury will be having words about what type of information is and isn’t acceptable to keep from the team and Phil will remind Fury of the medical proxy forms in both his and Clint’s files.  He’s pretty sure Fury violated quite a few protocols in keeping Phil’s survival a secret even from Clint, and if there aren’t already forms to deal with that sort of violation Phil will _create them -_ in triplicate.  But for now Clint’s head is pillowed on Phil’s good shoulder and his arm is thrown across Phil’s waist holding him, not tightly, but like he’ll never let go.    
  
Phil’s surprisingly ok with that.   



End file.
